


Ambrose Spellman's Domestic Infractions

by otherwiseestella



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Comics)
Genre: Afternoon Tea, Ambrose Spellman is a rogue, BDSM, Blowjobs, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Domestic, Face-Fucking, Latin, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Porn With Plot, Punishment, Riding Crops, Safewords, Verbal Humiliation, submissive Ambrose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: Aunt Zelda is insistent that Ambrose is ill-behaved. Needs dealing with. Must be punished. Out of the kindness of his heart, Father Blackwood insists that he will do so. Of course, he gets no pleasure from the arrangement....(Domestic BDSM, dirty talk, and afternoon tea which leads to unusual consequences...)





	Ambrose Spellman's Domestic Infractions

**Author's Note:**

> **Father Blackwood and Ambrose use a Latin safeword. 
> 
> Blackwood asks 'si vales' (are you well?) and Ambrose responds 'valeo' (I am well). It is a Latin joke based on the famous Roman greeting in letters, 'si vales bene est ego valeo'.**

He isn’t ‘bad’. He doesn’t ‘misbehave’. He’s over three-quarters of a century old, for crying out loud. If he’s brooding, rude, fond of putting his bare feet on the kitchen counters, that’s his lookout.

It simply isn’t seemly for him to be punished for perceived infractions. His entire life, every waking minute enclosed within four walls, is punishment enough.

And yet, that doesn’t stop Zelda. 

Oh, she can’t actually do anything, of course. The stipulations of his punishment stop short of cruelty. Anything she’d like to do to him – and there are many things, always listed in explicit detail – would ensure that he saw out the rest of his house-arrest in hell.

Frankly, he often thinks he might prefer it, but he’s much more useful to Zelda as a faithful servant than a whipping-boy, and so she never lifts a finger.

Instead, she saves his sins up. Drops them into conversation like sugar-cubes into tea whenever Faustus Blackwood comes around. 

‘Oh, but of course, that was when dear cousin Ambrose spilt litres of embalming fluid all over an antique rug’.

‘Oh, no, we haven’t had guests since dear cousin Ambrose defiled the man… we found them together, playing upstairs.’

‘We wonder, Father Blackwood, if Ambrose isn’t leading Sabrina terribly astray…’

Her voice shivers with disgust, and she betrays his domestic infractions as if she were lifting the silver lid from a plate of delicacies. She takes a draw from her cigarette, and lifts the corner of her mouth in an expectant smile.

And Faustus Blackwood, because he’s about as flexible as a corpse in a frozen river, takes the bloody bait.

‘It must be very challenging for you, Zelda’, he purrs, his eyes flashing. Speaking as if Ambrose weren’t in the room, legs over the edge of the sofa, dressing-gown falling carelessly to reveal his shoulder. 

‘Of course, we understand the terms of Ambrose’s house-arrest, but I am sure the council would agree that something must be done’, he continues, his fingers running over the top of his cane, his fingernails long, like those of a vampire.

Mortal men in the service of the Dark Lord are always desperate to exercise the meagre power that he has granted them. Like a flashy sports car or a new woman – they cannot resist showing off his gifts. Absolutely no class.

Aunt Zelda melts like butter, her smile sycophantic, her fingers twirling in her hair like a horny little schoolgirl. He knows that they… have an arrangement. He finds it – well, disgusting and endearing in equal measure. Almost every coven he’s encountered is run like a mixed-sex dormitory, all giggling and fucking and petty squabbles. Why should Greendale’s be any different?

He pouts, not bothering to hide it. He glances toward Blackwood, and catches his gaze – it is hungry, and dark, and cold.

The idle chit-chat continues for some time. He closes his eyes, pretending to doze, and he feels, sharp as two bright pins, Blackwood’s eyes on the length of his body. He does not shiver, and though something stirs between his legs, a single coil of heat, he doesn’t rise enough for it to show. He is not inclined to give Blackwood the satisfaction of knowing he has any effect on him whatsoever.

Eventually Zelda leaves, under some pretext with the tea tray, and he hears Blackwood’s chair creak as he turns toward him. There is a heat in the power of his full attention.

‘Ambrose.’ His voice is quiet. Commanding. It has a silky quality, like a scarf wrapped around an iron bar.

‘Ambrose Spellman, you have been giving Zelda, who is our faithful handmaiden, such unnecessary trouble.’

Ambrose remains silent, eyes closed, his chest rising slowly up and down.

‘Look at me.’

He feels the corners of a smirk prick his lips.

The silk in Blackwood’s voice slips. ‘Ambrose. Look at me. How dare you ignore your betters.’

At that, his eyes open, though he remains where he is. ‘Were any such people in the room, Faustus, I would be sure not to ignore them.’

He swings his feet lazily to the ground, sits up, and looks Blackwood full in the face. ‘But I’m not going to bother myself for a clerk of the Devil, now am I?’

At that, Blackwood’s face contorts, just for a second, before he brings it back under control. 

Ambrose is correct, of course. House-arrested he may be, but he is a powerful warlock, gifted, experienced, and blessed by the Dark Lord. Faustus Blackwood is… a nothing little pen-pusher, a noisy little mortal who curries favour with the Dark Lord like a puppy.

That aside, however, Blackwood is – interesting enough. Extremely attractive, truth be told, in that pale mortal way. Anger heightens his colour, forces his throat to bob as he swallows, brings out the line of his jaw as he tenses.

Blackwood clears his throat, tightens his grip on the staff. ‘Your aunt has detailed your infractions, Ambrose. It is only meet that I punish you for them in her stead.’

The silence in the room is heavy.

‘It gives me’, Blackwood says, ‘no pleasure to do so.’

And he almost, almost manages not to betray the lie in his voice. But he pauses, just a fraction of a second too long on pleasure, and his tongue snakes over his lips.

It is that pause that almost undoes Ambrose. He feels himself blushing, and the heat that has been curling in his stomach spikes. He opens his mouth to speak, but Blackwood gestures minutely to the door. 

Of course. Zelda will be outside, her ear pressed to the wood. The only reason she isn’t astral projecting into the room, ears and eyes busy, is that Blackwood had persuaded her, in a rare moment of post-coital cosiness, that he could only discipline Ambrose in private, to best maintain the harmony of the house.

Ambrose will admit that for a mortal, Blackwood has moments of genius.

So instead, Ambrose makes do with slipping forward, off the sofa, onto his knees, and raising his gaze, just slightly, to meet Blackwood’s eyes from under fluttering lashes. 

What he wants to do, is let his mouth run, until Blackwood gets so worked up that he loses control. This, however, will have to do.

Blackwood stands, moving the table so that the centre of the room is clear, his back toward the door. ‘I see you are already in the position to accept your punishment. Do you agree that you need to be punished?’

As he speaks, he lifts his cane, moves it across to Ambrose’s lap. Ambrose is hard, now, and the fold of his dressing gown has been hiding the evidence. Blackwood lifts the silk edge off Ambrose’s lap. Underneath, he is wearing light pyjama trousers and to his shame, he has been hard long enough that he is leaking, a small damp patch beginning to show through. Blackwood’s cane is rough over his cock, sends electricity up his spine. He feels his cheeks pink at the shame of it.

His many conquests, his various adventures. Nothing has ever given him quite the same thrill as this. Humiliated, kneeling, while a man he barely knows inspects the mess he’s made of his own trousers, as if he were a naughty little boy.

Ambrose’s breath hitches, and when he looks at Blackwood, he knows that his pupils will be blown. 

‘I agree, Father Blackwood.’ His voice is breathy, trembles ever so slightly. From behind a door, it might well sound like fear.

Blackwood smiles. ‘First, you will sit as you hear your infractions recited. You are not required to speak.’

Father Blackwood is not a patient man, in these situations. He circles Ambrose and lifts his cane again, this time pressing it against the small of his back until Ambrose shifts forward, onto all fours, then further down, until his face is pressed to the thick pile of the carpet, and his arse is raised in the air. Ambrose feels his heart begin to race. He is blushing now, the shame of it, kneeling willingly before a mortal – knowing, desperately waiting, for what will happen next.

 

Blackwood pauses, and Ambrose feels the tension in the air. He reaches an arm behind himself, almost overbalancing, and shifts his dressing gown. Then, he fumbles with his waistband, pushing the trousers down, exposing his bottom. Blackwood likes Ambrose to expose himself. It heightens the humiliation, he says. Ambrose cannot disagree.

He hears the twist, and knows that Blackwood is unscrewing the top of his cane, and drawing, from its hollow interior, a thin black crop. Ambrose grins into the carpet. He knows this one.

‘Firstly, Ambrose Spellman, you have failed to carry out, with adequate care, duties which your aunts requested of you. You have been careless in your tasks, have you not?’

As he speaks, Blackwood keeps his voice level, enunciating carefully to keep his breathing steady. As he does so, he flicks the crop against Ambrose’s exposed bottom. Not hard enough to be punitive, but the tap brings blood to the surface, concentrates Ambrose’s mind on the power held in Blackwood’s hand.

No answer is required, and so Ambrose makes do with a whimper, letting his lips mouth Blackwood’s name into the carpet. On hearing it, Blackwood pauses his ministrations. Then, he brings the crop down, far harder, twice in quick succession. Ambrose swallows a gasp as best he can.

‘Secondly, you have flaunted undertaken carnal relations with visitors to this house, have you not? You are under arrest, not contracted to work in a bordello.’

 

This one stings. He knows, of course, the rules of this game. The humiliation, the way he is reduced to an object. But this one. Well. He wants Blackwood to say it. He wants Blackwood to call him the name he can feel bubbling under the measured language. The words that make him feel, that reduce him too….

‘You have behaved, Ambrose Spellman, like a common slut, a cheap whore, a nasty, brazen creature of base appetite.’

Blackwood punctuates each insult with a swift whack of the crop. It leaves thin pink lines, which take at least three days to fade. As it comes down on Ambrose’s skin, it makes a sound like a pistol crack. Ambrose can feel himself tense against the pain, wills his muscles to stay relaxed. Tensing makes the scars worse, makes every whistle-down of the crop an agony of anticipation. 

It is utterly, supremely delicious. Its like nothing else, this fine, stinging pain. He can feel it behind his eyes, feel it build and burst into colour, the anticipation and then the extraordinary bloom of each stroke. Lords, he’s so hard. He’s leaking straight onto the carpet now, his cock freed from the waistband of his trousers, and the sensitive tip chafing against the rug as he’s sent forward with every stroke.

What sort of slut leaks on the carpet of his aunts’ house, in the drowsy afternoon hours of a weekday? Who takes their pleasure thus, bent and whimpering? His mind, with every stroke, is finding it harder and harder to cling onto thoughts that are not ‘more’, ‘now’, and ‘please’.

Father Blackwood bends, so that his mouth is hovering over Ambrose’s ear. He speaks, so quietly that it is barely a murmur, ‘si vales?’

Ambrose opens his mouth, but it takes a second for it to cooperate with his mouth. The pause is minute – nevertheless, Father Blackwood slips his hand under Ambrose’ chin, and tips it toward him with infinite carefulness. 

‘Si vales?’, he repeats, and there is something – gauging – in his eyes. Not caring, not precisely, but he looks at Ambrose in the manner of a hawk, interested in its prey only so long as it can dance. 

Ambrose knows he must look a mess, as he meets Father Blackwood’s eyes, his pupils blown, his lips red from where he’s rubbed them against the carpet, trying for something – anything – to balance the sensation the cane across him.

‘Valeo’, he says. 

Father Blackwood gives a curt nod, and lets go of Ambrose’s face. He walks around his kneeling form once, as if inspecting an animal at market.

‘Its’ going to bruise’, he intones, his voice low. ‘You wanton little slut, you won’t be able to sit for a week. And I’m still not finished with you.’

He pauses, the tip of the crop resting between Ambrose’s cheeks. On either side, the fierce lines of its work sting red. Ambrose can barely breathe. 

‘Your final infraction is the most serious’, Father Blackwood continues, rubbing the tip of the crop over Ambrose hole. It feels deliciously exposing. It feels terrifying, if he is honest. Terrifying – and holy. Transcendent. The knife-edge feeling of not knowing what will come next is almost too much to bear. It takes him out of his head. It is the best feeling he knows.

‘Your Aunt tells me you have been leading Sabrina astray. She’s a young woman with a more than unusually questioning nature, which you have been fuelling. Surely your own…unfortunate circumstances caution you against advising others?’

There is a moment of stillness, the air so thick that Ambrose feels he might choke in it. All he wants is more sensation – more crop, more anything – and he cannot bear the sudden loss of contact. Father Blackwood must know this, and he draws out the pause before he speaks:

‘For your final punishment, Ambrose, I will require you to adjust your position.’

As he shifts, Ambrose feels the hot sting of the crop marks. Blackwood makes him kneel up, so that his head is at waist level. He wants to sit back on his heels, take the strain of his thighs, but the moment his bare arse hits his ankles he hisses and rises back up. The sting is too strong, too much to take. He can tell that the pain flashes across his face, because as Father Blackwood steps closer, he runs his thumb across Ambrose’s mouth.

‘Don’t pout, you filthy warlock.’, he purrs. ‘I’m only giving you what you deserve.’ He gestures to his placket. ‘Come along now. Undo it.’

He can see the shape of Father Blackwood’s cock through the thick dark fabric of his trousers. Ambrose idly wonders, sometimes, if the Dark Lord had a hand in its length, its girth. He wouldn’t be surprised.

‘I can see how badly you want it’, Father Blackwood breathes, ‘your lips are wet. Have you been drooling, in anticipation? How many times have you taken yourself in hand, thinking of this.’

Ambrose swallows, his fingers slipping over the small buttons. He raises his face, so that Father Blackwood sees him, keen, kneeling, clumsy with it. Father Blackwood’s face is heavy with it too, his colour raised from exertion, his chest heaving.

‘Hurry up, Spellman’, he snaps. Ambrose wonders if he uses that tone on Zelda, too. He doubts it. The schoolmaster snap in his tone, Blackwood saves for Ambrose alone. There is a thrill in submitting his power to the mortal. There is an even greater thrill in being scolded like an errant child.

He frees Father Blackwood’s cock, finally, and cannot help but curl one hand around it. It is so beautiful. He feels his mouth flood and his gut kick with it.

‘No hands, Ambrose. This is a punishment, not one of your dirty little assignations.’

With that, Father Blackwood places his hands at the back of Ambrose’s head, and draws him in, as if in perverse blessing, closer to him. Ambrose slowly, steadily swallows him down, having little choice. The pace is steady, but brutal. Ambrose’s nostrils flare as he tries to breathe around Father Blackwood’s cock, which throbs once, twice as he throat constricts. He can feel tears beginning to form in the corner of his eyes.

He relaxes his throat, lets his eyes fall closed, inhales the musky scent of Father Blackwood as his nose becomes buried in his neatly-cropped hair.

‘Get to work, Spellman. And don’t dare get me soiled.’

His tongue flicks against Blackwood’s cock, and he coaxes little shivering sighs out of him every time he sucks. Blackwood, he has learned, like soft, small movements in the beginning. But more than anything, he likes absolute focus. Ambrose takes a shaky breath as Blackwood pulls back, careful to keep his lips tight, to swallow any precum down. That sharp-dark taste that he swears he can imagine, late at night, between visits.

And then Blackwood’s hips shift forward, his hold on Ambrose’s head tightens, and there’s nothing he can do but keep breathing as Blackwood fucks his face. 

Ambrose is expert at relaxing his throat, hears the grunt of satisfaction in Blackwood’s voice as he moves deeper into Ambrose’s throat, as Ambrose swallows, tightens. The strokes are deep, their speed building, and Ambrose can feel Blackwood’s fingers digging harder into his skull.

‘You filthy slut… fuck… your mouth. Sinful little whore, so eager for my cock, so eager to suck me down, to take your punishment.’

Tears are tracking down Ambrose’s face, and his breath is stuttering. He can feel himself growing light-headed and fuck, this is what he wanted. He can’t think of anything but Blackwood’s cock, and distantly feels his own arousal, urgent now, responding to Blackwood’s unholy litany. 

Father Blackwood speeds up, his hips stuttering as his rhythm grows erratic. His breathing is harsh, panting, and he is muttering Ambrose’s name.

‘Ambrose. Good, so good. Your mouth… almost…’

Then, with one final thrust, he stills, flooding Ambrose’s throat. It’s too deep for him to taste, but he feels Father Blackwood’s cock pumping once, twice, three times down his throat. He is dizzy with it, with the bitter taste as Blackwood carefully, slowly, pulls out.

He is so careful, mouth working, tongue gentle, to clean every drop of come off him, to make sure he is pristine. He presses his nose briefly into Blackwood’s curls once more, as if in worship, before Blackwood moves away.

Ambrose’s thighs are on fire. His arse aches from his cropping, his throat is sore his jaw tired. And he is hard. So, so hard still, exposed and leaking. He doesn’t dare raise his gaze. 

Blackwood slowly, precisely, tucks himself away, buttons his placket. Then, he gestures for Ambrose to stand.

When he does, he is wobbly, uncertain. His cheeks flame when he considers what he looks like, so wanton, so desperate for his own release.

‘You have completed you punishment, Spellman, to my satisfaction. You wish, now, I suppose, to reach your own conclusion?’

‘Yes, Father Blackwood’, he murmurs. Ambrose’s voice is husky, ruined from fucking.

‘Very well then. Come here.’

Blackwood sets a napkin over his own left hand, offers it.

‘You may bring yourself to release, provided you spill here and do not make a mess. And do not take too long. I have other matters to attend to.’

Shakily, Ambrose takes himself in hand. He is obscenely hard, leaking onto the pristine white napkin. As he strokes himself, his legs shake, and when he dares to raise his eyes to Blackwood’s, they are watching him, hungrily.

That is what sends him over the edge. That gaze of keen interest, of undivided attention, laced with the slightest inference of a sneer. The hot-shame of that gaze makes him spasm, his muscles clenching. He sees stars, and is coming, so much, milky-white, spattering over the napkin, again, again, as his mouth falls open in pleasure.

Afterwards, Blackwood folds the napkin carefully, then slips it into his pocket. Ambrose watches him do this, and does not ask why. Instead, mutely, he resets the living room, removing any traces of what has gone on with a minute motion of his fingers.

He likes doing that, reminding Blackwood of his power, as if he had not been, moments ago, mutely begging for release.

As they make to part, Blackwood catches his eye. ‘I do hope you will behave, Spellman, and that a better report awaits me next time I visit.’

‘I will do my utmost, Father Blackwood’, he replies, fingers running idly over his throat, ‘but I fear I am something of a lost cause.’

Then with a smile, Ambrose Spellman slips through the living room door, and pads softly back up the stairs to his room, bare feet barely making a sound on the stairs.

Father Blackwood remains where he is standing, just for a second. He adjusts his clothes, pats his pocket where the napkin sits. There are perks to this job.


End file.
